Strange Case of Harry Potter
by Aibhionne
Summary: In muggles, Multiple Personality Disorder is a disorder characterised by at least two distinct identities that alternately control a person's behaviour, and may not even be aware of each other. In Witches and Wizards, the disorder presents….differently. Or: Harry Potter didn't come out of his encounter with the killing curse entirely unscathed.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: This is pretty much finished, give or take. I'll be posting pretty regularly or that's the plan.  
><em>****_T_****_hanks to the wonderful Sarah for putting up with me for the three years it actually took me to start finishing this thing._**

**_Warnings for quasi-psychology, shameless manipulation of both accepted science and Harry Potter Canon and a heavy dose of inspiration from Robert Louis Stephenson's _"Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde".**

_###_

_In muggles, Disassociate Identity Disorder (DID) or Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) is a cognitive disorder characterised by at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities or dissociated personality states that alternately control a person's behaviour, and is accompanied by memory impairment for important information not explained by ordinary forgetfulness._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

_###_

NHS Central London Residential Treatment Centre for Children and Young Adults was a pleasant yellow brick complex in Whitechapel, London. It had the facilities to support up to thirty residents and twenty staff in comfortable single rooms, with twenty of the resident rooms having ensuite bathrooms and the further ten residents rooms sharing five bathroms between them. The complex sprawled (as much as it is possible for any building to sprawl in Central London) around a large central green area, the sixties architecture not looking too out of place next to modern high rise office buildings and eighteenth century tourist traps.

"Who did you say you were here to discuss again?"

A tired looking man was sitting as straight in his chair as his fatigued spine would allow him. Thin-framed glasses did nothing to hide the purple circles around his eyes and lines of bone-deep exhaustion carved almost delicately into every surface of his face. His visage would not have looked out of place on a healthy 50-year-old, but this man was too young for his face. The new photograph on the desk – an exhausted woman with brown hair clutching a bundle of white blankets with a pink fist sticking out of one of the folds – could lead an elastic mind to understand his state.

Sitting on the other side of the desk was a man dressed in a violent violet velvet suit, with a well-groomed white beard reaching his belt and long white hair reaching further, even when pulled back into a long tail held in place by a - was that a stick?

"Harry Potter. His family had – have – a tradition of sending their pupils to the school which I am fortunate enough to be headmaster of. His name has been down on this year's roll ever since he reached his third month."

The exhausted man heaved a toe-deep sigh, turned to his computer screen and pulled up a new database entry

"Could you please confirm Harry's date of birth, your full name and your relation to him for our records."

"31st July 1980, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, family fr –"

"– _Wulfric _with an 'f' or a 'ph' spelling?"

"Wulfric with an 'f' Brian Dumbledore, family friend and – hopefully – future headmaster."

"Right, Professor Dumbendore, you are here to discuss the future of one of our residents, one Harry James Potter, formerly of Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey, correct?"

"Yes. Can you please tell me about him? His parents were very good friends of mine and I – well, I confess to having misplaced him after the incident at his last centre."

"He became a resident of St Jude's Centre after a school fire in 1987 and was a resident up until the centre was destroyed 4th April 1989, a catastrophe of which Harry was the only survivor, though not with his memory intact. You understand that the school fire and St Jude's disaster are both public record and no private information has been shared save the identity of the survivor o-o-o," the monotone recitation was interrupted by a large yawn before resuming. "The identity of the survivor of the incident, a fact that you were already aware of prior to your entrance into this centre. You also understand that I cannot go into any more detail about one of our residents due to the fact that you are not a relative, nor do you currently have any legal responsibility for him."

"Of course, of course, I would expect no less. However, I think you'll find that I have right to information about him as described _here_." The man in the purple suit picked up a piece of paper and passed it to the man sitting behind the desk. Tiredness seemed to cloud the supervisor's eyes for just a moment, before he began to read the _blank_ paper that had been handed to him.

"That seems to be in order. How much detail do you need to know for your records?"

"Just his condition in layman's terms, if you please; I'm no expert in Psychology, unlike your good self. If you would send a copy of his details to the address on the card I gave you, I will ensure the school nurse receives all the information she needs."

"Well, he's got severe retrograde amnesia that we believe to be trauma induced, possible PTSD and a certain attraction to fire, though he's never started one. But, to be honest, nothing much. All in all, I would recommend keeping him away from bonfires and sources of green light, but he's in no way maladjusted to living in general society."

"I must ask: has anything strange happened around him? Anything that just doesn't make sense?"

"There is... talk amongst the children sometimes. But you probably don't want to hear about that."

"On the contrary, I find the talk of children to be often most enlightening."

"Well," Dumbledore was beckoned forward to lean conspiratorially over the desk, beard dipping in the mug of coffee sat by the keyboard, "They say that things fly around him, or that he makes things appear from nowhere when he wants them. They even say that his eyes change colour. But, to put it politely, we have some very ill children here, Mr Dumbendore, who say all sorts of things. I wouldn't take it too seriously. What I would like to know, however, is –"

The door opened, almost slamming into the wall as a frazzled looking nurse with scorched sleeves ran in, not seeming to see Professor Dumbledore at all.

"– I'm really sorry to interrupt, but she seems to have got hold of some matches again."

"Caoimhe's got matches? How does she keep getting them?"

"No offence meant, Chief, but the drapes had already gone up when I left and I'm worried about what she's got up to since – you know Alex isn't up to keeping them in line – and, well…"

"Please excuse me, Mr. Dumbendore, but I must see to this. If you wish to visit with Harry, anyone in blue coveralls will be able to escort you, and we will post our reply to your offer of schooling before the stated deadline." As he spoke, he was shutting down his computer and herding Professor Dumbledore from his office, locking the door behind the three of them before heading down the corridor at nearly a full sprint with the nurse, throwing a, "Good day to you!" over his shoulder as they went.


	2. Chapter 2

_###_

_Magical Disassociate Identity Disorder (mDID), also referred to as Dual Personality Disorder (DPD), differs from its muggle counterpart in several ways. For one, in mDID the alters exist in a symbiotic but completely separate relationship; there is no "Host" personality._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

_###_

A man in green coveralls was pushing a mop backwards and forwards across the floor, very close to finishing his work for the day so that he could see if the visitor on the rota was the person he thought it might be.

"Excuse me?" The kindly voice came from directly behind the cleaner, causing him to spin, slip, slide and regain his balance with the ease of one used to the action. "Oh, I am very sorry to have startled you, however I appear to have found myself somewhat misplaced. Could you be so kind as to point me in the direction of someone who might be able to oversee a meeting with one of the children here concerning their schooling?"

"Wha - sure, yeah, nurse's station, right, this way. Follow the signs, but I guess they can get confusing, eh?" The mop and bucket were gathered up and put in one of the many cupboards lining the walls, locking the cabinet behind, and starting off at an amble down the corridor away from the junction the eccentric headmaster had appeared from.

"Might I inquire as to your job here?" said eccentric headmaster asked, filling the silence, "I find myself incredibly curious about the day-to-day running of this establishment."

"Day-to-day runnin'? Not really my area, I just keep this place clean and in order."

"A valuable and vital job, I am sure. Do you have a team to assist you, or do you care for this whole building alone?"

"No' alone, nah. Far to big a job for one person - there are four of us, each takes care of one wing of the buildin'. I got Blue, that's this wing, the biggest. It's a good job. This is a nice place to be."

"Fascinating."

There was a pause. The duo turned a corner.

"So…were you 'ere to enquire after a relative, or what?"

"The son of some dear friends of mine."

"So you were 'ere to see if you could take 'im 'ome to 'is parents?"

"I'm afraid not; his parents are dead."

"Rest their souls. Which kid?"

"His name is Harry. Harry Potter."

"Short kid. Scrawny. Black 'air."

"That sounds right."

"'E's a bit of a pyro, that one. Not on the level of some of the kids, but 'e still 'as an attraction to it."

"You know him?"

"'Is room is in my wing - second corridor, last on the right. I'm the one what 'as to clean the soot off 'is walls. But 'e's a good kid. 'E's magic then?"

The question stuttered the Professor's footsteps for a moment while the man in green continued walking, oblivious.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I recognise ya, Mr Dumbledore. My brother went to that school o'yours – Pigfart's, weren't it? You lot can do all sorts of things, can't ya? Like make people forget. Are you gonna do that 'ere an' spirit 'im away? Don't suppose anyone's allowed to know about the magic thing, what with there not bein' close family, an'all. But 'e 'as got paperwork, mister, 'e goes missin' and someone will notice."

"I don't think I understand what you're trying to warn me against, Mr…?"

"We 'ad an auntie, see," the man in coveralls carried on talking as though the elderly Professor hadn't spoken, "loved Charlie – that's my brother – right up until 'e gets that letter. Now, Auntie Clara wouldn't know Charlie from a bin-man. That sort of thing would get noticed 'ere. An' it's Williams, m'name, for all the good that'll do ya."

"I assure you, Mr Williams, that we have no intention of, ah, _spiriting away_ young Mr Potter. I truly did know his parents and I truly do wish for his best, which I, perhaps egotistically, believe includes an education at my school."

"I'll take ya word, but expect me to keep an eye on Mr Potter. If I'm to be the only person 'ere 'oo knows what your school really is, then that kid is going to need my support."

"Forgive me, Mr Williams," Dumbledore fully stopped in his steps and this time the other noticed and began to turn. "But I think you might do the child more harm than good if you tried to help."

"'Ow do ya -"

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, I welcome you to the ninth weekly Olympic Games! Competing for Sohoania in the Field events is Johnny the Jet! Representing Mayfairius is Steve the…"_

_A curious word crept across his dreamscape just as the referee was calling starter's orders for the scrambled egg dash. He had never heard anything like the word before _(hadn't Charlie talked about words like that one?)_, yet somehow the presence of an unknown word in his mind was nothing to worry about . In fact, it was so un-worrying that it was completely unimportant_ (hadn't Charlie told him to worry about these sorts of words?)_. So unimportant as to be inconsequential and so inconsequential that he might as well save himself some brain space by forgetting it immediately._

_The word crept by again, and this time his mind didn't even bother to acknowledge it, what with the word being so unimportant, so it drifted around his dream a few times, beat him in the 400m sack race, gathered a few memories of the last hour or so as a prize and then left, taking the memories and becoming nothing more than a whisper on the breeze drifting from his mouth, fading with the echoes of a spoken word:_

"Obliviate."

###

Williams, J., woke an hour after the end of his shift, obviously having had a nap in the break room for the last hour of his shift, since he had done all his work early. He had finished early because there was going to be a door visiting - because one of the kids might get pigs - no. He had finished early so that he could catch up on sleep, but he must have slept through the alarm he set to indicate the end of his shift. That would be a sensible explanation for it. In fact, Williams was becoming more and more sure that was what had happened...


	3. Chapter 3

_###_

_However, the most physically obvious of the differences between DID and mDID is the physical changes that different alters exhibit in the shared body. For example; while one alter displays brown hair and the other could display blonde._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

_###_

The last room on the right of the second corridor in Blue wing was small and neat with pale blue walls, two windows and a cream carpet half covered by a navy rug. A single bed ran along the right wall with its headboard half underneath one window, a desk running parallel to the bed and under the other window.

A figure was standing silhouetted against the window when the Professor entered, looking out over a neat green lawn and small blue and yellow flower beds. He half turned, regarding Dumbledore with features still thrown into shadow by the bright afternoon sunshine.

"Hello. Who are you?"

"My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore, and you are?"

"Hy - Harry. Harry Potter. Professor of what? Are you another type of doctor? I thought I'd seen everything, but that suit - wow."

"Thank you, I am rather fond of it."

"To each their own. Why are you here? I don't get many visitors."

"I came to offer you a place at a boarding school - Hogwarts - of which I am headmaster."

"Boarding school?" Harry turned fully back to the window, watching three children play catch with a tennis ball on the lawn, "You know, some of the people here were told that this was a boarding school for _special children like them_ by their parents before they got dropped off. Well, "_dropped off_"; it was somewhat closer to being pushed out of a moving vehicle, or so they say. That girl there, for one. She doesn't like car journeys anymore, tends to get excessively violent when she's taken near moving vehicles. It's strange, isn't it? The connections a human mind can make."

"To the extent of my knowledge, Hogwarts is not a euphemism for a residential home, though it is for special children."

"What sort of special children, if not those like those of us who live here?"

"Tell me, Harry: Do you believe in magic?"

Dumbledore was not prepared for the reaction such a simple and almost playful question could prompt. The silhouette whirled away from the window, anger twisting features _(so like James) _that were made visible as he moved away from the light_._

"You think we – _I'm_ psychotic, don't you? Off living in my own world, out of touch with reality? You just want to add a definite disorder to the file, don't you?"

"No, I –"

"You're lying. Tell the truth!"

For just a moment, Dumbledore could have sworn that Harry's beautiful green eyes _(so like Lily's)_ flashed to a colour somewhat similar to the angry grey clouds that gather just before a thunderstorm.

But then the moment was gone, and so was the confrontational attitude that Harry had worn like a cloak.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I've never shouted at anyone before. I don't like it when people shout."

"Why don't you like it?"

"I don't remember. But I know shouting never meant anything good."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I'm amnesiac. Didn't they tell you that? They just _love_ talking about us – _me_ behind my back."

"They may have mentioned it. To clarify, your earliest memory is of...what?"

"Waking up here, April fourth '89."

"But you were able to give the doctors your name and date of birth? Might I ask how?"

"You don't know much about amnesia, do you Professor? Amnesiacs often remember facts about themselves, yet attach the same emotional connection to these facts as they would population statistics for a rural village in West Sussex throughout the eighteenth century, which is to say, little significance at all."

"So, what facts do you remember?"

Brows furrowed over bright green eyes, concentration digging trenches into his forehead.

"Harry James Potter, thirty-one-oh-six-eighty, Number Four Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey, _freaks-stay-in-the-cupboard,_ Lily James, _the-green-light-is-bad _and he _laughs!"_

There was a pause, before Harry spoke again.

"Sorry. They tell me that I have PTSD, but no-one knows what sets it off. Fire or explosions, maybe could make sense, but I love them far too much for them to be my trigger...I don't think I'm what you're looking for, Professor. I'm not special. Just another crazy in a loony bin."

"Not special? Tell me, Harry, have you never done strange things when you are scared or angry? Have you never done something impossible?"

"I've said it already, Professor: I'm not psychotic. I know that which is my imagination and that which is not."

"So you will, of course, know that this conversation is real?"

"Of course." The boy parroted back sardonically.

Dumbledore lifted a plastic tumbler from the desk, holding it out to Harry.

"Then you will also know that this cup is real?"

Harry received the cup and placed it back on the desk.

"Obviously."

"And that this is also very much real?"

Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the cheery yellow plastic tumbler became a cheery yellow plastic plate. Another flick and it became a rubber duck. One final flick and a real duck sat quietly quacking on Harry's desk, causing the owner of the room to leap away from his position standing by the bed.

"Wha - No, _no_, that doesn't make _sense_. _How _can that make sense?"

He picked up the duck, causing it to make a very loud noise of protestation, turning it over and altogether thoroughly examining it.

"This...this is real. I see it, feel it, hear it, and, unless I've really gone off the deep end in which case there's no harm in humouring you, then... what's the saying? _Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, probably is a duck_. This is a duck. It was cup, then a plate, then a bath toy, and now it's a duck. _Once you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be truth._ The tumbler cannot have been changed by any science I am aware of, certainly not by only using a tool just short of forty centimetres long that appears to be made of wood. This duck was not changed by science. This duck was changed by magic. Magic exists. I never hallucinated, I did magic. QED." This had all been delivered very quickly in a great burst, as though following a runaway cart down a train of thought. It was followed by a long pause, as though the cart had crashed and the thoughts had to be salvaged from the rubble in order to be spoken, "It _is _magic, what I can do, isn't it?"

"What can you do?"

"All sorts of things."

###

"Would you require assistance with getting your school supplies?"

"In what form would this assistance be, Headmaster?"

"Well, I could ask a teacher to accompany you to Diagon Alley – that is our London shopping district - or perhaps our groundskeeper. He's a lovely man, is Hagrid, though somewhat unsubtle."

"I would prefer to not be very obvious, sir. I don't like lots of attention - I'm not used to it. They don't over-monitor here, you see, not unless we need it."

"Perhaps the teachers, then. Though, as it is nearing the start of term, their schedules are quite full. Ah, no matter, I will think of something and owl you the details of your escort nearer the time, once the details are finalised."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Think nothing of it, my boy. I look forward to seeing you in September."

"Until then, sir."

###

Professor McGonagall was waiting in the Headmaster's office when Dumbledore returned, tea prepared and Ginger Newts happily peaking from their tin at the new surroundings. The headmaster settled in, received his cup of tea, produced his own tin of confectionery and ate a yellow candy before curiosity bested the other's patience.

"How was he? The Potter boy? Was he happy? What did you think of him?"

"An altogether very bright child who did not appear to belong where he has been placed."

"You seem...unsure, Albus."

"I'm sure it's nothing, Minerva. An old man simply becoming paranoid in his advancing years."

"And yet?"

"And yet… I find myself reminded of another bright orphan that passed through these halls."


	4. Chapter 4

_###_

_There have been cases where the physical difference is as subtle as the appearance/removal of a birthmark on the body's hand, and there have also been reports of the alters having such drastically different appearances that only by seeing the alter shift could it be reconciled that there was only one body._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

_###_

Harry Potter received an owl early one friday morning in mid-august.

This was seen as such a bizarre occurrence as to be completely ignored, for it simply _could not have happened_; owls do not act as this one did, neither do they carry letters addressed in green ink, nor letters addressed in any other colour for that matter.

Mr Potter's subsequent day-long disappearance was marked down on lists as a _pre-scheduled outing_, regardless of the fact that it was barely pre-planned at all. He was picked up from the centre at nine-thirty sharp by a woman wearing a skirt-suit and a bun, and escorted back through its doors by a dour looking man dressed head-to-toe in black at precisely four in the afternoon, laden with considerably fewer bags than seemed necessary for a year's school supplies.

And, of course, the girl who saw Harry pulling far more things than could possibly have fit out of these bags was patted on the head and sent for a re-evaluation.

_She's clearly seeing things._

_###_

"Hello? My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall, I am here to collect Mr Potter in order to accompany him while he buys his school things - I'm told this was all prearranged, I'm sure you'll find it all correct in your records. Is there somewhere for me to wait while you fetch him?" The smart-looking woman walked briskly past the stunned nurse manning the reception, severe bun and suit matched by a sharp demeanor and no-nonsense attitude.

"Down the hall on the right - what organisation did you say you were here on behalf of?" the harried nurse responded, paperwork fumbling in his hands. McGonagall seemed to twitch, and suddenly to nurse found his hands on the correct piece of paper. As the Professor had said, everything was completely in order.

"Hogwarts Academy. I assume Mr Potter is on his way? I'm afraid we are in a bit of a hurry, there are several things to be done today."

"_On his way_ would be an inaccurate descriptor, ma'am, as I am already here. Would you be the Professor that I was told to expect?"

"I am Professor McGonagall, Mr Potter, it is good to meet you. You look just like your father though those eyes are all Lily."

"Did you know them, Professor?"

"Know them? They were unforgettable. James Potter - caused me more trouble than all my other Gryffindors combined, discounting, of course, his close friends. And Lily Evans, a smarter witch I never did see. Absorbed information like a sponge and it flowed out of her in combinations I never would have thought to make. Both of them brilliant, of course, though rather different in their day-to-day temperament. But, well, I'm sure your relatives told you all about them. You don't need me to ramble on."

"I wouldn't know, Professor. I don't remember much."

"Ah, yes. Retrograde Amnesia, wasn't it? Nevermind, we must hurry if we want to beat the morning crowds - you don't want to be trying to get into Gringotts at peak times, believe me, Mr Potter."

###

McGonagall took Mr Potter through Diagon Alley acquiring money and purchasing robes with the speed of a flash flood, almost as little conversation and certainly with as much force. It was a relief when Mr Potter was passed on to an eager Professor Flitwick, at least for as long as it took to realise that going book shopping with a bibliophile is less than fun for one who is not themselves deeply in love with books. Professor Sprout's matronly calm was a definite contrast to the manic energy of a Ravenclaw in a bookshop, and a welcome contrast at that. The Herbology teacher was a great source of information on the day-to-day living of a British witch or wizard, a source that was readily tapped by the student she was helping to buy the general odds and ends necessary for life at Hogwarts - parchment, quills, ink, a telescope, a thousand and one other things and also ice cream ("_You can't visit Diagon Alley and not go to Fortescue's, it would practically be a crime, Harry!"_), before heading off to pass the student along to their final possible head of house, one Professor Severus Snape, Hogwarts Potion Master.

###

A tall, thin man was waiting impatiently by the entrance to the apothecary when Harry and Professor Sprout ("_Call me Pomona, Harry, I'm not your teacher yet!"_) approached. The man was wearing black slacks and a black waistcoat under a black robe. His shoes, shirt, belt, hair, eyes and socks were also, unsurprisingly, all black.

"Ah, Severus! Sorry we're a little late, I got rather distracted while Harry here was buying his telescope, and best not to mention how long Filius lingered in the bookstore - this affair was terribly behind schedule when I finally managed to drag the poor boy away from Flourish - I don't know _what_ Albus was thinking, getting a Ravenclaw to buy his books, I mean, really, he should have known better than to try to set a time limit on how long Filius could spend looking at books! Anyway, I must be going, Harry, I have Fire Seeds to gather before they burn the Greenhouse again, and it's nearly time to harvest those Baneberries you need, Severus, so goodbye! Don't spend all the boy's time in the apothecary, remember he needs a wand too!"

And without giving either of the men watching time to so much a blink, she was gone.

"Hufflepuffs, in my belief, are too energetic by half. Well, Mr Potter, are you waiting for a glided invitation? Go inside, I'm not going to hold your hand and guide you through, I have my own purchases to make. I assume the system of organisation is simple enough for even the son of James Potter to understand."

Harry walked quickly into the apothecary to find that the ingredients were organised by no system he could comprehend - not alphabetically, not by price, not even by size. The arrangement didn't seem to make any sense whatsoever, for surely it would be logical to have those hair-like roots ("_Threaded Goosegrass Roots"_ the label stated) hanging in a skein rather than tangled in a barrel by the door? And that basket of what looked like rocks ("_Pre-purification Saltpetre (Bat, 70% pure)")_ was hanging from the ceiling for no clear reason when there was a large free spot on the shelf below it and to the right.

"Reactivity and then by type, kid."

The Green-eyed boy turned rapidly to find the person behind the counter looking at his confusion in amusement.

"They're organized by general reactivity with a standard two-parts water base, less reactive and less likely to explode near the floor, and very likely to explode if handled incorrectly hanging from the roof. All your first year stuff is second shelf or lower, barrels count as on the floor. And by type; rock base on my right, stone base on my left, soil base by the door and sand base around that barrel of Flying Seahorse Guts in the corner."

"Flying Seahorse Guts? As in the guts of Flying Seahorses, or seahorse guts that fly?"

"Both." As if on cue, what the eleven-year-old estimated to be about a third of the contents flitted out the top of a barrel standing on the floor, fell about halfway to the ground, hit some kind of barrier and seemed to squelch unhappily back to its original place.

###

It took ten minutes for Professor Snape to get sick of Harry's attempts to get his ingredients ("_Bumbling around like some sort of fool who has never seen a cauldron before, honestly Potter, term hasn't even started and you are already going out of your way to annoy me") _and quickly and efficiently collect all the ingredients a first-year would need, placing them on the countertop ("_Don't expect this sort of effort on my behalf to pander to you to continue. Well? Do you expect me to purchase them for you also?"). _The ingredients were soon packed up into boxes and placed in an unexpectedly large capacity carrier bag. Professor Snape then swept from the shop, noticeably without a bag or purchase of his own, despite his stating that he had ingredients to buy.

"This apothecary does not appear to stock the ingredients I require in the quality I require. Much as it may shock you to hear, Potter, the apothecary down Knockturn Alley is of a much better standard but, of course we can't send the _Boy-Who-Lived t_o buy anything down a street that is so _obviously_ only full of _dark_ wizard_s _doing _dark _things, with no decent shops there at all."

"There's another shopping district?"

"Do not try to fool me into believing you do not know, Mr Potter, it will not work. Now we buy your wand and then this farce will be over and I can return to doing things that are actually worth my time."

###

Harry followed the Professor into the darkened shop, the atmosphere making the hairs on his neck stand to attention.

"Ah, Mr. Potter." The voice came from the shadows of the door as a tall, thin man stepped into the light. He seemed to have a double take when he laid eyes on Harry, but rapidly continued as if nothing had happened. "I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Though the choice of escort is unexpected to say the least, I believed the headmaster would send Hagrid to accompany you."

"As far as I know he nearly did, but was able to work out a system with the heads of houses instead."

"Now, I could tell you of your parents' wands if you so wished, or about the wands of the four people who have guided you up and down this street today but I believe you are more interested in your own wand. Would I be correct?"

"I'm beginning to think it very rare that you would not be."

"It is becoming more so as I grow older, Mr Potter, I must say." The white-haired man suddenly spun to face Professor Snape, who had been lurking in the same shadow that Ollivander had sprung from when Harry first entered the shop. "Now, Professor, out! I need privacy, I am sure you understand. The matching of Wand and Wizard is a very intimate and delicate act. Most accompanying adults do not understand and insist on remaining with the children, potentially leading to a mismatched wand because of their preferences. Since you are not so obtuse then you will agree to leave the shop during the process. _Out._"

Snape looked the wand-maker over carefully before nodding in acquiescence and turning from the store, stating that he would go and update his personal ingredients store, and if Mr Potter would wait here once this business was concluded instead of wandering up and down a strange street believing himself invincible it would be appreciated.

"Now he's gone, I can ask the important question: do you prefer singular pronouns, or plural?" Said Ollivander, quietly.

"Sir? I'm not sure I understand you..."

"A great many children have stepped through those doors, Mister(s) Potter; you are hardly the first to have DPD. Or do you prefer mDID?"

"I don't follow."

"Oh, you were muggle raised. Bless me, I had forgotten. DPD, Dual Personality Disorder, or mDID, magical Disassociate Identity Disorder. I believe the muggles have something similar? DID or MPD? There are differences, however, between the magical and muggle equivalents and I would recommend a little light reading of the psychology section of the bookshop in order to properly understand the condition."

"In a hypothetical situation in which you were right, then how would you have been able to tell?"

"I am a wand-maker, Mister(s) Potter. It is my duty to know. And in this hypothetical situation, would you prefer the use of singular pronouns, or plural?"

"Hypothetically, we would prefer the use of plurals."

"Of course, sirs - I'm assuming you're both male, yes? Now, for the wand: depending on how conflicting your personalities are, you may need to have two wands. Owning two wands is only legal in cases such as this, so I would keep one hidden if I were you. Unless, of course, you wish for your condition to be a public one..."

"Preferably not. Apparently _Harry Potter_ is a person of some importance in this society, and God forbid people of importance be abnormal."

"The magical society prefers to cuss to Merlin, as in '_Merlin forbid'_ and such, Misters Potter. And I do understand - is there a name you prefer other than the rather imprecise '_Misters Potter' _?"

"Call us...Misters Carew and Lanyon. It's less...clumsy, though still not the names we prefer."

"Mr Carew and Mr Layon it is. Now, Mister Lanyon, which is your wand hand?"

###

When the dark-haired potions professor returned to the wand shop a not inconsiderable time later after spending as long as humanly possible in the apothecary (potions masters are no more immune to the stench than other people, after all), he found a dark-haired boy handing over a fistful of coins to Mr Ollivander where they stood together in a small patch of the shop floor that was clear. The rest of the space was filled with wand packing, remnants of boxes and what appeared to be a splintered set of shelving.

"Unfortunately it would appear that your escort has returned, Mister - Mister Potter, but please do return when you are ready. It would be good to continue our discussion."

"Of course, Mr Ollivander, I will endeavour to come back when I have an excess of time on my hands and I am sure we will while away the hours discussing all sorts of things. Until then, goodbye, and sorry again for the mess."

"Not to worry, Mister Potter, not to worry. This old shop has seen far more destruction than this and still survived intact. Though it would serve you to remember precisely how contradictory a Hawthorn wand can be, even when it has chosen you as its wizard."

"Believe me, I will not forget in a hurry. My thanks."

Professor Snape watched as Potter did an odd sort of half bow to Mr Ollivander, before turning and walking towards the exit. As he walked through the sunlight now streaming in through the large front window, his eyes appeared for just a moment, to be a quicksilver shade of grey that vanished with the sunlight as clouds passed overhead. Potter continued towards the professor, green eyes (_not a hint of grey_) bright in his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**###**

_Another difference between mDID and its muggle equivalent is in the number of alters – while sufferers of the muggle disorder have been reported to have up to several hundred different alters, there has only ever been one recorded case of mDID where there has been more than two: the famous case of Morgana's daughter(s): Viviane the Seductress, Morgause the Mother and Nimiue the Enchantress._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

_###_

Convincing the staff from the centre that they didn't need to see Harry onto the train was surprisingly difficult. Only by insisting that, as he was going away to boarding school for nine months he could and should be trusted to look after himself did he even stand a chance of making it to the train. In the end, it was agreed that an escort to the platform was not necessary, but an escort to the ticket barrier _would_ take place, as would the sending (on Harry's part) of at least one letter every two weeks containing a full and detailed report on how he was handling the change in environments.

###

"If Platform Nine is there…" the boy looked to his left "...and Platform Ten is _there_…" he turned to the other side "...then, logically, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters would be…" he stared at the barrier, "here. But, apparently, it isn't. But going by what one can see then there is no entrance to Diagon Alley either, therefore the entrance could easily be disguised from view, and standing here talking to the air is pretty unlikely to make the method of entry suddenly plain, and only serves to make the normals aware."

"Also make wizards aware."

"Though I suppose that's pretty useful for you."

The green eyed boy spun around to find a red-head standing by each of his elbows. The way they spoke to each other had an odd sort of rhythm, as though the conversation had taken place already. They were undoubtedly twins, dressed identically save the colour of their jumpers.

"Never seen someone logic their way into figuring out where the platform is before, have we Gred?"

"Definitely a first, Forge. The ickle firstie must be headed to Ravenclaw."

"Deductive reasoning like that, how could he go elsewhere?"

"Could easily go elsewhere if he doesn't manage to get on the platform."

"True, dear brother, very true. Shall we tell him?"

"Where, darling twin, would the fun be in that?"

"Perhaps, then, a nudge?"

"Just to make sure he's headed in the right direction."

"Practically our duty."

"And we can't avoid that, can we?"

The two red-headed boys carefully looked around them for eavesdroppers before leaning in, as though to whisper in the first-year's ears. Quick as a snap, both twins brought up their hands and firmly pushed on the black-haired boy's shoulders, leaving him toppling uncontrollably towards the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Putting a leg behind him out of instinct, he found himself walking back as though the barrier wasn't even there. Looking up, he saw not the support pillar he was expecting, but a large stone archway, with a large official sign on his left declaring:

_Now Leaving Platform Nine and Three-Quarters._

_Thank you for travelling with Wizard Rail._

_All customers are reminded that no magic_

_is to be used anywhere in this station_

_for reasons of secrecy and safety management._

_Please look both ways before crossing the barrier._

The twins, still stood in front of him but clearly on the other side of the barrier, were smiling in a way that was probably supposed to be innocent and endearing. The smiles probably would have worked better if they hadn't been aiming them a foot and a half to his left.

"We'll just grab your trolley, ickle firstie!"

"Do watch out for traffic, it's easy to get trodden on when you're as small as you are!"

And with grins still stuck on their faces they spun around for the trolley owned by the boy they had just pushed through the barrier, saw someone who was clearly their mother, grabbed the trolley, shoved it through the barrier and into its owner before turning those innocent smiles on their mother, who obviously wasn't fooled in the slightest.

###

The first few days of term at a boarding school are fascinating displays of people being so very desperate to avoid an entire year (and possibly six more after that) without any friends, that they form unlikely friendships for no better reason than _there was no-one else to talk to_, ignoring sometimes utter incompatibility, completely different backgrounds and a preference for different sports. For example, a red-headed younger sibling from a family of nine wizards and witches making friends with a dark-haired orphan who spent most of his childhood in a muggle cupboard.

"I'm Ron Weasley," said the boy who had just sat down in the carriage, offering a hand to shake.

The bespeckled wizard extended his own hand saying, "Harry Potter."

"Blimey, are you really?" Ron seemed so shocked to be sharing a carriage with someone he had grown up hearing tales of that he forgot to do anything with his outstretched hand, leading to the other boy awkwardly giving their joined hands a little shake before extracting himself from the tight grip.

"Have been all my life, yeah."

"Do you remember…y'know…when you got the scar?"

"Uh, no. Do you mind if I read?" He pulled a cheerfully coloured textbook from his satchel, flipped it open to the bookmark and shut down conversation in the carriage.

After ten minutes of looking out the window, Ron pulled some sort of battered chess set from the top of his bag, laying out the board and, to the bemusement of the boy watching over _An Illustrated Anthology of Magical Monsters_ seeming to instruct the pieces to "rank up, quick march". The pieces quickly jumped from the box and arranged _themselves_ in spots on the board, mostly correctly too (with the exception of a red knight being in a white bishop's space) though two of the pawns seemed to be having an argument over which of them would take the central square and which would be placed on the outer edge.

"Bloody things, been around too long, not like it matters which of you goes where." Ron was muttering to himself as he repeatedly placed the red knight in her correct square only for the knight to attempt to move back to where she was previously. Eventually the pawns stopped arguing and the knight settled into the right place. "White army under my command, red army under their own. White begins; Pawn to E4." It was clearly the magical equivalent of playing the computer at chess - Ron would make a move and then the red king would instruct his side what to do in response. The first time one of the pieces was taken the black-haired boy nearly jumped out of his skin, not at all expecting bits of pawn to go flying across the room with a surprisingly loud crash.

###

"Are you alright in here? I heard some very loud crashing."

"Wizard's chess,"muttered Ron, "Castle to F12."

The newcomer - a girl with large front teeth and large hair - was clearly not happy with the response until Ron's bishop was taken by the red queen with a particularly vicious thwack.

"It's very...violent, isn't it?" She was left waiting for a response as the red-head examined the board, brows knitted in concentration.

"You're probably not going to get any good answers out of him in this state. Ron beat them in ten moves last game and I think this is some sort of grudge match. He's Ron Weasley, by the way, and I'm Harry Potter."

"Are you really?"

"No, I'm lying in order to trick my way into magic school."

"That won't work you know, I've read in _Hogwarts: A History_ that the method for sorting students has an infallible method of ensuring only people who have been invited to study at Hogwarts can stay and if you're impersonating - "

"I'm not impersonating anyone; you're very literal aren't you? But I really am Harry Potter, yes, I do have the scar, yes, and I'm already sick of being Harry Potter, so please call me Harry. Who are you?"

"Hermione Granger, two _e's_ and an _o._ If you're Harry Potter, then where have you been all these years? Every book I've read has said that you were declared missing in the wizarding world after your muggle primary school caught fire, and I read the normal - I mean, muggle - papers about it in the newspaper archive at the library and they didn't say _anything_ about you, but then I realised that you were a minor, so they wouldn't be allowed to publish anything about you at all, and aren't you going to answer my question?"

The boy had gone back to reading his book, twice ducking behind it to shelter from flying bits of chessmen. The long pause seemed to make him realises that a response was needed. "Hm? Oh, I spent a time in CLIC."

"Click? What's that? Do you mean "Clink"? Because if you've spent time in prison, then I'm not sure if you should be attending boarding school with impressionable eleven-year-olds –"

"Not _click_, CLIC. C-L-I-C. The Central London Institute for Children. Though, it's technically the Central London Residential Treatment Centre for Children and Young Adults, now. But that's real a mouthful, isn't it? And it doesn't acronym very well. C-L-R-T-C-C-Y-A. CLIC is better."

"A Residential Treatment Centre? Isn't that, like, an asylum? For severe cases of mental illness? Why were you there?"

"I'll let you know when I remember myself. And calling it an asylum is somewhat insulting, actually."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Why don't you remember?"

"I'm amnesiac. I feel like I'm going to be saying that a lot this year."

"Oh, really? I find amnesia cases fascinating. My parents had, have, a patient - they're dentists - who has anterograde amnesia meaning he has lost his ability to create long-term memories; he shows up every thursday at twelve noon exactly thinking it is the eighth of July 1976, on which date he had an appointment booked. My parents know an awful lot about the Cod Wars now, it's all he ever talks about. Did you know that one fisherman was wounded and one engineer actually killed over the course of the confrontations?"

"No, I didn't know. What the heck are the _Cod Wars_?"

"Disputes between the UK and Iceland over fishing rights in the North Atlantic. There were three Cod Wars, the first of which began on September first 1958 and lasted through to November twelfth of the same year. It started when - "

" - You know what, Miss Granger? I really don't care about fishing rights squabbles."

"Of course, sorry, I guess I got carried away. And call me Hermione. But what sort of amnesia do you have?"

"Near-Total Retrograde Amnesia of before the fourth of April '89."

"Oh, wow. So you can't remember any of your childhood?"

"Only the stuff that I see in flashbacks. And, judging from those, I'm better off not remembering."


	6. Chapter 6

###

_The alters either work together towards a common goal (such as in the case of Morgana's daughter(s) working against Merlin and Arthur to their deaths in order to avenge her/their mother's murder) or detest each other._

_- from "_Identity Disorders: a curious wizard's guide"_._

###

"So, first-years too? Oh, a Weasley."

A blonde-haired boy was standing in the open door of the carriage. Pale eyes took in the two boys, seeming to find the fine layer of ceramic dust and shards that lay over everything in the carriage as a form of personal insult.

Ron was still enraptured by the chess set, the games getting fiercer as the boy repeatedly trounced the Red side. Three moves passed before he remembered to look up at the person in the doorway.

"Well, judging by the look on your face and the effort put into that hair, you must be a Malfoy. Step back or get dusty. Queen to B10." Malfoy moved hurriedly around the edge of the door as bits of castle went flying across the compartment. He poked his head back around the door just in time to be hit in the nose by an airborne bit of white knight. "Sorry," Ron said, distracted by the move he hadn't seen coming. His attention was thoroughly returned to focussing on the game with the total exclusion of the outside world.

"That bushy-haired girl who wouldn't shut up said that Harry Potter was in this compartment. Is that you?"

"No, it's the other boy in this compartment who isn't a Weasley," said Harry, not looking up from his book.

"My Father said that the teachers had to accompany you to Diagon Alley. Couldn't your guardians take you?"

"Considering I am a ward of the government, that would be rather tricky." The blonde did not say anything, looking incredibly confused to the boy who finally looked up from his book to see why he wasn't responding. "I have no guardians, so, no, they couldn't take me."

"Oh." The conversation stuttered to an awkward halt. "My Father took me. He works in the ministry, and he's on the Board of Governors for Hogwarts. He's very powerful, and connected. Well, obviously, I mean he is a Slytherin and everyone powerful is a Slytherin, so they all know each other - "

"Yeah, they're all so close that they've even got matching tattoos," chimed in Ron. "Bishop to E5."

"How dare - " Malfoy went for his wand, much to the bemusement of the third person in the carriage.

"What are you going to do with that? Throw sparks at him and set his eyebrows on fire?"

Spluttering and outnumbered, Malfoy spun from the carriage, chased out by bits of pottery as a pawn was taken by a red bishop.

Ron glanced up from his chess set at the black haired boy, seeing grey eyes fixed assessing on the doorway that had just held the Malfoy heir.

_Wait…_

Ron looked again. _Green_ eyes were looking at the door in irritation.

_I really must have eaten too much chocolate if my eyes have started playing tricks on me…_

###

"Potter, Harry."

The green-eyed child moved cautiously to the stool, hissing whispers and outright catcalls echoing every step. He sat down, eyes flashing in the candlelight as the sorting hat was lowered onto his head.

'_Oh, my. This is...unusual.'_

'_Gryffindor, if you don't mind.'_

'_You may be many things, but Gryffindor, you are not. You do not fit with the Lions. Ravenclaw, perhaps? You have the intelligence. Or Slytherin; your secrets will be in good company.'_

'_If you say anything other than Gryffindor, he'll set you on fire and I'll laugh as you burn. Gryffindor. Please_.'

'_Are you sure? You will not be happy there, I think.'_

'_Gryffindor may be somewhat detestable, but it is necessary.'_

'_Well, if you insist Far be it for me to argue with one who has so definitely made up their mind. They'll never see you coming in _GRYFFINDOR.'

###

The Welcome Feast would have barely been notable, were it not for the presence of _Celebrity Harry Potter, _sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table sandwiched between a Weasley and that boy who kept losing his toad, asking probing questions of the Gryffindor house ghost, eventually leading Sir Nicholas to question out loud whether the boy would have perhaps been more suited to Ravenclaw, and maybe their ghost would be more likely to have the answers he sought before floating away through one of the other first year boys ("_Thomas. I mean, I'm Dean Thomas. Well, I answer to either so pick one and stick to it, really.) _who shivered so hard that he spilt juice on the boy sitting next to him _("Seamus Finnigan. You're going to spell it wrong a lot."). _The boys had apparently met on the train, and were near inseparable already.

Just as the main course dissolved into desert, Neville noticed that Harry seemed to be having a staring contest with the intimidating Professor Snape, sparkling grey eyes drilling into black.

_Wait…_

Harry moved his gaze from Snape to Neville, green eyes smiling at brown.

_It must have been the candlelight shining off them…_

_###_

Lessons started rather easily for the Gryffindor boys. They only got lost three times in their first week and the novelty of having a celebrity in their midst wore off rather quickly when they realised that the boy didn't talk much and generally seemed to prefer silence to loud conversation. He would be perfectly happy to play a quiet game of chess or even Gobstones, but as soon as someone appeared with an exploding snap pack, he would vanish behind a book. The teachers seem already to be enamoured with the quiet boy who seemed like such a hard-worker, though not as good at the practical as he was at theory. The way that Snape interacted with the boy was downright odd, though. After the staring contest at the opening feast and the odd way the professor looked at the boy in the corridors (like the boy was a particularly difficult puzzle of the sort he couldn't stand), the way the Potions Master suddenly changed tack in the middle of a potions class in which he had previously only be derisive towards the Potter boy shouldn't really have come as a surprise.

###

"Tell me, Mr Potter..." Professor Snape trailed off rather abruptly.

_Harry Potter's eyes are green. Even an imbecile knows that. It's written in every text on the subject: 'By the third week after his birth, Harry Potter's eyes were an eerie bright green, reminiscent of the curse that was soon to rip his life apart, blah, blah, blah'_

_But these eyes are grey, definitely grey, not a speck of green in them, grey like storm clouds._

_If Harry Potter's eyes are green, and these eyes are grey, then whose eyes am I seeing?_

"Mr Weasley! Answer the question."

_Maybe it's a faulty batch of Polyjuice? There has been little research into the effects of dusty boomslang skin or other substandard ingredients, it could potentially lead to inaccuracies or fluctuations in the desired effect._

"Wha - "

_Or maybe it is a glamour? Or a glamour to cover the effects of a faulty potion? His eyes are usually green, else other professors would have mentioned the irregularity in Potter's eye colour. A glamour that slips over the eyes at times of high emotion?_

"Not paying attention? Tut tut, Mr Weasley, what would your mother think?"

_But this lesson isn't a time of high emotion. _

"But you - There - It - "

_Nor was the Post-Sorting feast. Nor, truly, was the incident that I dismissed in the Alley. What I had previously written off as fallacy must now be taken into account - Harry Potter's eyes are sometimes grey and sometimes green, for reasons unknown._

"A point from Gryffindor for poor preparation and spluttering at a Professor, Weasley."

_I need more information._

**###**


End file.
